There are people who delight in organizing. Sorting everyday objects into plastic tubs, labeling their phylum and species, is a calming activity that imposes order on the chaos of things.

I am not one of these people. I am organizationally retarded. It's not just that I don't have patience or interest for these tasks, which would imply I am somehow above them: I have zero aptitude for them. I begin organizing only to be found flummoxed amid cute, well-meaning storage containers, pondering old photographs or receipts. One of my college jobs was filing for a research institute — sometimes I just went into the basement to "file" and ended up absorbed in back issues of "The Journal of Philanthropy." Sure, I own a label maker, but I use it to print out smart remarks. I have never actually labeled anything with it.

I only tell you this so that when I describe the fit of organization that overtook me this weekend, you will understand that I am not well. My bathroom cabinets are in an abnormally perfect state. In case you were wondering, the "grooming" category encompasses razors and nailcare, and that 10-year-old bottle of Ativan that you were hoping to score from for your next overseas plane ride is no more.

So now that my bathroom cabinets are clean, I am ready to have a baby.